Battalia
by FuturisticVampire
Summary: Raising Rin and Yukio, Shiro wants to keep their demonic parentage a secret from as many people as he can, for as long as he can. Unfortunately, that's a rather difficult task when the Archangels constantly fluttering around keep calling them 'Nephew.'
1. Chapter 1:: Rosemary

Updated 6/7/20 just to read better

**Title: Battalia**

**Summary: Raising Rin and Yukio, Shiro wants to keep their demonic parentage a secret from as many people as he can, for as long as he can. Unfortunately, that's a rather difficult task when the Archangels constantly fluttering around keep calling them 'Nephew.' Less politely, angels are bad at keeping secrets, and Satan finds Rin and Yukio sooner than later. Guess which one he sends Astaroth to steal?**

**Full Summary:**

**Alright-**

**Eight Demon Kings, Not all stay true to canon. Bam.  
****Seven Archangels, All OC. Bam.  
Rin finds out he's the son of a demon at ten years old. Bam.  
Relies on both mangaverse and animeverse, but like I said not everything stays true to canon.  
****K, starting the story now. Boom~**

* * *

Chapter 1:: Rosemary, Rosemary

_"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned._

_"Listen, Father, and grant me my penance._

_"Forgive me, Father, for I have lain with a demon,_

_"and I now lay here, waiting to birth our child."_

* * *

Church bells tolled through Rome in the dead of night.

A cheerful knock startled Shiro from a sleep worthy of death. The sense of alarm mixed with guilt that he'd fallen asleep, though, stuck in this damned cell, he didn't see anything else he could do. But he heard the knock, and he jumped awake.

The grinning face on the other side of the iron greeted him too formally for the place they were in.

"Good evening, Father Fujimoto," he said with a small bow.

"Mephisto." Forgetting his exhaustion, the exorcist found his feet. "What the hell is going on?"

The demon held a set of keys in front of him. "I think you already know, my friend." His eyes were uncharacteristically wide. "Today's the day," he sang jeeringly.

Shiro's eyes widened. "You mean Yuri?"

Mephisto unlocked the door with a small snicker. "It's Hell on Earth, dear Father. They need your skills as Paladin." _Only the best of the best to murder a helpless woman and her innocent child_, he thought with due irony.

Shiro almost dashed out of the door as soon as it was opened, but remembered his glasses on the small cot and went to grab them. Mephisto watched patiently.

"Here." Shiro started backwards when the demon thrust something into his face. He hadn't noticed he was holding something in his other hand. "The Kurikara Sword."

Shiro took it, albeit with some hesitance. "What do they want me to do with this?"

Mephisto only gave him that half-smile and repeated his words. "I think you already know, my friend."

* * *

_It smells like sin._

A beautiful scent, really.

Here, in the darkest corner of the Holy City, he knew she lay. He could _smell_ the purity of its flames under the stained scents of sex and blood.

"Mikey?" His brother apprehensively spoke up next to him.

"Yes?" Mikey looked in his direction, but not out of interest. Valy hated when he was looked at in the eye. He nervously averted his gaze, and Mikey smirked in satisfaction.

"A-aren't we going down there?" asked the younger. He nervously fidgeted with the silver ring on his thumb, a small comfort but a comfort nonetheless. He _hated_ confrontation. Mikey should have taken Gabriel instead; he was addicted to these kinds of things and he loved action. Valy would rather be sleeping, waiting to listen to someone else's recount of the events.

Mikey took a moment to answer. "Nah," he eventually said, his hand moving from his sword hilt to his hip. "That place is writhing with demons. I can't be bothered."

Valy looked at him with wide, incredulous eyes. "Bu-but-"

"But what, Val?" Mikey tilted his head to look at him. "I only came to check it out, anyway. What, you..." A grin upturned his lips. "You didn't think I was coming to _kill_ the child, did you?"

Valy turned away defensively. "Well, it _is_ the spawn of Satan."

"Satan's an angel, too, y'know." Mikey shrugged. Deciding that that point was fruitless (not to mention controversial as all hell), he pushed another one. "Just because something is born of evil doesn't mean it's gonna be evil, too."

But his little brother still was unconvinced. "Then what about the Demon Kings? Are they not evil because of Satan?"

A small, condescending laugh passed Mikey's lips. "Those hellspawns? You know that's not the same thing, Val. They're inconsequential to us, anyways."

Valy scoffed and muttered under his breath, "Inconsequential to _you_, maybe."

"Hm?" Mikey looked down at him, then after a moment shrugged in consent. "Well, I guess so. They _are_ quite powerful, even here. But don't worry; I could kill any of them with a snap of my fingers. Well-" He tapped a finger on his chin. "Maybe not the eldest. _He_ would take two snaps."

He noticed Valy looking dejected, so he reached down and ruffled his hair. "Ah, don't look like that. Just stick with me, and you'll be as strong as them in no time, Val."

"Stop calling me Val! That's a woman's name." He ducked out of the other's grasp.

_Jeez__._ Even shouting, Valy's voice was soft. Mikey decisively turned away from the basement doorway, tugging on his brother's scarf to follow. "The Demon Kings are direct spawn of Satan," he continued his previous point. "Not to mention they were raised in Gehenna at his side. This one has a human mother, and will be raised in Assiah."

"There's no way she survived birthing a Nephilim of that heritage," argued Valy breathlessly, hurrying to catch up with his brother.

"That's alright," the elder called over his shoulder. "There's someone else who will raise it."

Before he could get pulled away by Mikey, Valy reached to his scarf, pulled off a string off of it, and let it fall to the ground.

* * *

Shiro could feel eyes on him as he came to a stop in front of the descending stairway Mephisto had stopped in front of. He wasn't surprised that they were being watched; it was completely dark but for dim streetlamps, and this was a place of wretched people watching from dark windows. No one in their right mind would be outside in a place like this, at a time like this. Not that Shiro cared about their eyes particularly, but he was certain that at least some of them belonged to demons. He didn't think he was really in the state to kill a swarm of demons.

He wasn't too concerned about the demon standing next to him, though. It was more that he knew he couldn't count on him to help out if they were attacked. Shiro decided to count on his presence alone to keep other demons away.

But, the bigger problem:

Yuri.

Mephisto, hands clasped behind his back, watched the gears grind in his companion's mind.

"She's down there?" Shiro's voice was hoarse, but not timid. Nothing much was inflected in it at all, which Mephisto commended. He was, after all, about to murder a woman whom he called friend and comrade. Not to mention whatever monstrosity lay between her thighs. The demon suddenly realized that he had no clue what a biological child of Satan would look like. Would it be blind? Would it be an abomination? Would its skin be black? Would it have skin at all, or just be a writhing mass of bones and meat? He was _dying_ to know...

"She is," he answered curtly, but not without a superfluous flick of the wrist. When Shiro remained unmoving, he gave a resigned puff of air that clouded the cold air. "_Allow me_," he said not without indignation, and was the first to lay a boot on the frosted stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an abandoned purple thread on the snow.

_Of course._ "Careful, though," he called back. "We might not be the only ones here." Though, if it belonged to who he thought it did, they were already gone.

"What do you mean?" Shiro cautiously followed.

Mephisto made a vague hand gesture. "I don't know; just a feeling." He touched his fingertips to the rusted railing and then immediately retracted it. _Dirty._

When they came to the bottom of the stairs, Mephisto was surprised to notice a rudimentary seal protecting the door. He huffed, offended. As if such a thing could keep him away. It broke before him with a mere peck of his finger, and he pushed open the door.

Waving away a curious Coal Tar, he stepped into the murky room and Shiro followed him. He sniffed disapprovingly at the smell, a macabre mixture of mold and newfound maternity, and his eyes focused on the darkest corner of the room. A thin mattress lay there on a strained-looking bedframe, and on that mattress lay a woman, scarcely breathing. It was all so silent, so deafeningly silent that Mephisto's head tilted in minor confusion. He had always been under the impression that birth was louder than this.

Then a small whine came from the bed, and both Mephisto and Shiro perked up. With eyes wide, Mephisto barely noticed that he had started to move until he noticed something block his path. A growling wolf with teeth too sharp and claws too white crouched before him threateningly, its own saliva pooling at its paws.

Again, he felt offended. _As if._ He raised a dubious eyebrow at the wolf, and walked past it.

"Pathetic," he murmured, flicking a strand of hair from his eyes.

Her laboured breathing became more apparent as he got closer. She lay on her back, her blood soaking the mattress and dripping to the floor. _How distasteful_, Mephisto thought. But then, he of all people couldn't really criticize much, could he? He paused just enough to allow Shiro to take the lead. After all, seeing his reaction was just as much a reason for Mephisto's accompaniment to Shiro as seeing the child itself.

"Yuri." The exorcist didn't hesitate to kneel in the grime and blood.

"Sh-Shiro." Her fair face looked so pained now, so broken. Mephisto felt a morbid satisfaction looking upon it. He wasn't altogether sure why, but watching her in pain, body straining to take one more breath _delighted_ him, the corner of his mouth twitching in an effort to remain passive.

But then, she managed to smile, and ruin such a perfect image. Such a peaceful smile, such bright optimism amidst this wonderfully disgusting affair nearly made Mephisto retch. His hands curled into fists as he wondered again why his father would choose _this_ one.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Only then did they notice the two children in her arms- how could _that_ have escaped their attention? Especially the one exhuming blue fire as easily as it breathed. They were wet and cold, lying haphazardly in her arms. "The one with the blue flames is Rin, and the pale one is Yukio," she whispered. "Grow up... to be strong, my sons. Show the world that there can be peace between humans... and demons." Then with a shuddering last breath, a cough that spattered her blood onto the bodies of her sons, her body relaxed.

"No, Yuri, stay with us!"

The corner of Mephisto's mouth twitched again as he barely kept himself from laughing. Did Shiro not remember his reason for coming here in the first place? He was always so interesting. He would cold-heartedly murder anything and anyone in his path when his orders bid him to do so, and then go and show sentiment in the oddest of places.

There was a slight pause during which Mephisto heard a slight "_Fuck_." and Shiro stood.

"Well?" Shiro started at the sound of the demon's voice. Shit, he had forgotten that he was there.

And thank _God_ that he was. What would Shiro do without that shit-eating grin at his back and those sarcastic remarks mocking him? Praise the _fucking Lord_ that Mephisto Pheles was there to offer his moral support.

He took a breath and reminded himself not to be bitter. Mephisto was more than he put out, he reminded himself. He might be a demon, but that didn't inherently mean that he was an asshole, even if he _really liked_ to act like one.

"The Vatican's orders are clear, Shiro." Mephisto's eyes gleamed in the brilliant blue from the child's flames, and that fanged smile that always unnerved Shiro was twice as bad now.

"Right." Shiro regained his composure and quickly unsheathed his sword. There wasn't any doubt in his mind that he could carry out the mission, not until-

Suddenly he froze, and Mephisto leaned forward. "What's the matter?" he asked in the kind of tone one only uses to play the Devil's advocate.

"He smiled at me." Shiro's hands shook. "I'm about to kill him, and he smiled at me."

_Oh?_ Mephisto straightened.

Shiro inhaled deeply, appearing to steel his nerves, before lowering the sword. "Mephisto?"

"Yes?"

A tightening of his fist. "I'm going to raise these two children."

_What?_

This time, Mephisto couldn't stop the laughter. He brought a gloved hand to his mouth in an attempt to stifle it, but soon gave up and cackled out loud in the darkness. "What, _you_? The hell-bent exorcist, raising a couple of demons?"

Shiro ignored him, as he usually did. "I'm going to raise these two as my own children to become a couple of _fine_ human beings."

With a forced cough to suppress another giggle, Mephisto spoke. "Well, then, may I propose a wager?" When Shiro barely turned his head in interest, he elaborated. "You take the children and raise them. If they become _fine human beings_, then you win. But, if they awaken to their true nature, then I win. And if I win, I get to claim their lives."

Without hesitation, the man nodded. "Yes, fine."

"Alright." Mephisto placed a hand on his hip, pleased. "One last thing." He snapped the fingers of his opposite hand, and the flaming child's fire disappeared into the sword.

Shiro looked it over, mostly unconcerned. "What did you do?"

Mephisto shrugged. "Just sealed his power in the sword for you. Won't be much of a bet if he's constantly spouting blue flames everywhere."

"Thank you." He gave a small bow. "I owe you."

"Oh, don't bother." Mephisto spun around and began walking away. "I'll just go report to the Vatican you've killed them." When he reached the stairway, he stopped with one hand on the door. "And if you need my help at _all_, don't hesitate to call!" And with a wave of his hand, he'd gone.

Shiro looked at the door for a few seconds more, and then back to Yuri. His fist tightened around the sword.

To die in a place like this... She didn't deserve it.

One of the babies fussed, and he quickly remembered himself, crouching next to them and laying the sword on the ground.

_"It's alright..."_

* * *

**Yeet so how was that for an introduction chapter? There wasn't a lot of original content really, but I'd still like to know what you thought, so, leave your thoughts~**

**Oh, in case this detail escaped you, I really frickin like Mephisto he is my absolute favorite in this whole goddamn series and I love him. That being said (and this goes for any OCs as well), I promise I won't turn him into a Starkit character.**

**Wait wrong fandom**


	2. Chapter 2:: Profligate Society

**Oh sorry guys lol I deleted my second chapter because I was ashamed of its quality and the story is new enough I didn't think anyone would look for it anyways this is the rewrite XD here we go~**

* * *

Chapter 2:: The Profligate Society of Common Humour

There were considerably less exorcists sitting around this table than there were two days ago. Even the Pope himself had fallen to Satan's blue flames. Mephisto hid his snicker underneath a gloved fist resting on his chin. His father was _nothing_ if not persistent.

"Shiratori?" The boring, impassive voice continued running through the list.

"Dead," answered another.

"Both of them?"

"Yes."

The scratching of pen on paper.

"Sir Angel?"

"Dead."

"And his son?"

"Alive, in England."

_Scratch._

Mephisto suppressed a giggle. _Lies, lies, lies_, and everyone there were falling for it.

"Neuhaus?"

"Alive."

"Both of them?"

"No. Just the wife."

_Scratch._

"Lewin Light?"

"Alive, in Japan."

"Have him brought here."

"Yes, sir."

"Yuri Egin, Wife of Satan?"

Mephisto tried not to react to that title as eyes turned to him. An imperceptible tension in his shoulders was the only movement.

"Dead," he answered lightly.

"And the Spawn of Satan?"

"Also dead."

"Both of them?"

His lip quirked upwards. "Nope. Just the demon."

"And the other is completely human?"

A single nod. "Yes. I can confirm it."

_Scratch._ "You will be held accountable for that statement."

"Certainly." He slouched back into his posture of foul mood, wanting to leave. This meeting was a bore and he had other things to do.

_'Satan's_ _Wife.' _He exhaled bad-naturedly. _What a joke. As if Satan were capable of matrimonial _love_._

No, Yuri was just the victim of his father's most prominent trait: obsession. And she, being a human, mistook it for love. That was what Mephisto liked to call a rookie mistake.

"Azarath?"

_Azarath._ That name stirred more hatred in him than Yuri's ever would. Such a pesky little thing. For the hundredth time that day, he choked down a growl rising in his throat.

"Status unknown," said an impartial voice.

_Scratch._

Of course, it wasn't _really_ unknown. Mephisto was hyper-aware of her location, considering she'd been lying in his bed when he'd thrown open his doors that morning.

_"Ah, Samael."_ He recalled her disgustingly sweet voice._ "Sorry to bother you, but I need some space for a while. Be a dear and wake me up in two hours? Really, this Blue Night deal has me_ exhausted." A sigh. _"You know Satan. Always a bother."_

And of course he couldn't do a damn thing about it, because-

_"Oh, and let this be our secret, kay?"_ Her voice was almost inaudible by then, muffled by _Mephisto's fucking pillow. "Don't tell the Vatican, or I'll tell about yours and Fujimoto's secret. Thanks, darlin'."_

His nails chafed against the material of his gloves as his fingers slowly curled inwards.

"Any information on the rest of the Archangels?"

"No."

_Scratch._

"And the Ba'al?"

Again, eyes on Mephisto.

Yes, actually. In fact, there was one standing behind him now. Not that anyone else could see her.

"No, I'm afraid not."

_Scratch._

* * *

"So, Nii-san." The child's voice wavered every time she skipped on the pathway. "What's it look like?"

"Why are you asking?" Mephisto's voice was dry, the twirling of his umbrella the only thing keeping him grounded. The motion was comforting in its repetition, and managed to calm his agitation, if only slightly.

"Because I'm interested." She jumped a little higher to try to touch a passing butterfly. "What's a son of Satan look like born in Assiah?"

"It's really not his appearance that's so interesting." He stopped walking to lean against the railing of the bridge, facing the sunset.

"Then what is?" She stopped skipping and copied his movement.

"Nothing we'll be able to see yet." He spun the umbrella in between his fingers contemplatively. The child looked down at her own empty hands dejectedly, then perked up with an idea. She reached into her hair, pulled out the pin holding back her bangs, and twirled it happily in her palm. Mephisto watched her hair fall into her face with a raised eyebrow, but, as always, said nothing.

"When will we be able to see?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know." He sighed. He was more interested in watching the sky than in this conversation, always fascinated by the crepuscular beauty of the sun. The way the colors that danced off the water seemed different every day, and every day they were so fleeting. "Probably won't take more than a couple years," he continued. "I just wonder if the human side in him will be apparent at all, or if he'll be a complete demon."

"You've sealed his demonic nature away, haven't you?"

"I don't know if his demonic power and his demonic nature are the same. Like I said, we shall just have to wait and see." He pushed himself off the railing. "Are you coming home with me, Egyn?"

"Isn't that angel still lying in your bed?"

The reminder worsened his already foul mood. "Yes, and that is an issue..." He thought for a moment. "Shall we go find a good dinner, then?" Twirling his umbrella, he walked off again. He heard cheerful, skipping steps behind him.

"Can we go see it, Nii-san?" she asked hopefully.

His response was immediate. "No."

"Oh. Really?" She looked up at him in disappointment. "Just to look?"

"_No_." He faced her fully, coming to a full stop. "None of us are going anywhere near it until it's of age. Understand?"

The child's shoulders sagged, crestfallen. "I understand, Nii-san."

"Good." He continued on his way, and she skipped after him, the hairpin in her hand bouncing at every movement.

* * *

"Do we really have to hold hands?" Valy whined as Mikey dragged him forward.

"We are not _holding hands_." With his other hand, Mikey flipped his braid over his shoulder. "I am guiding you through an unfamiliar city."

"Yeah, by holding my hand." He unsuccessfully tried pulling it away. "Stop treating me like a child!"

"Then stop acting like a child."

"I'm _not_!" He punctuated his words with a powerful tug. Mikey's grip let up unexpectedly easily, and he fell backwards onto the ground.

Mikey looked down at him with a slightly confused knit of his brow, but glittering eyes. "Watch your step, Val."

_Asshole._ Valy stood, looking at the skinned palms of his hands._ He did that on purpose._

With a white-gloved hand, Mikey smothered his laughter. _That kid gets angry so quickly!_ "Hey, don't be like that." He patted his brother's head to try to calm the anger in his eyes. "Here." He reached into his coat and took out the chocolate bar Valy had watched him steal from a convenience store earlier. "I'm sorry, 'kay?"

Slowly, it died out. " 'Kay," he mumbled, and snatched it before Mikey could hold it from his reach. Quickly, he tore it open and took a bite from it. "So are we there?" he asked, looking at the church gates Mikey had stopped them at.

"Yeah, this is it." Mikey turned to it too, placing a hand on his hip. "Doesn't really strike you as the place the Son of Satan would be raised, does it?"

Valy licked the edge of his chocolate bar. "I think the irony is poetic."

Mikey gave him an odd look from the corner of his eye. "Sure."

He looked in his brother's direction. "So are we going to see it?"

"Yeah, eventually." He sighed. "I promised LuLu that he could go first, and he's occupied right now with the whole Azazael thing, so it might take a while."

"Aren't the twins there, too?"

"Why? You still in love with Remi?" A smile more malicious than mirthful came upon his face.

"_No_." Valy took a resolute bite of chocolate. "I was just wondering if Rath was telling the truth or not."

"Yeah, she lies a lot, doesn't she?" Mikey took a last look at the monastery. "Well, time to go."

"Hm? Already?" Valy quickly finished his chocolate.

"Yeah. I already told you we can't stay. If LuLu gets mad at us, the Vatican gets mad at us."

"Yes, of course." Valy hurried after his brother, but not before he crinkled the wrapper of his chocolate and let it fall to the sidewalk.


	3. Chapter 3:: Virtuoso

Updated 6/7/20 because reasons

**yea mephisto's surprisingly a difficult character to write. we'll see if i get the hang of it or not/**

**Thought I should mention, the story is named after a really cool classical piece I like, Battalia by this dude with a really long name that's just shortened to Biber, and the second chapter is named after one of the sonatas in it, the third one i think but I'll check my score. Nope it's the second one but anyways I like that one because it's made to symbolize the different mercenary and soldiers' festivities the night before battle and what am i talking about no one cares it's storytime baby  
**

* * *

Chapter 3:: Virtuoso

Luthian liked the snow.

He liked the rain, too, but it never could flatter him as much as snow could. No one looks good with soggy clothes and matted hair, after all. But the snow? The way the soft flakes drifted slowly down, their color matching his hair perfectly, the wintry blue skies afterward bringing out his eyes: it was all perfect. Not to mention how flattering his scarf was, the ends of it curled in the wind.

"Can I help you?"

Turning to the voice, Luthian tried to give a smile out of polite habit. However, it turned into a sick version of politeness, verging on malevolence. Before him stood a man who was much younger than him but looked much older, with white hair like his but far less attractive, holding the hands of two small children.

"Shiro Fujimoto." The words came out in more of a breath than a voice, clouding the cold air.

He watched the man tense, tightening his hands on his children. "Yes. What can I do for you?"

"_Oh_-" Luthian covered his mouth with a delicate hand, appalled at himself. "How rude of me. My name is Luthian." He held his hand out, now, for Fujimoto to take.

"Luthian, huh?" He took it, shook it once. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Isn't it?" His breath wreathed around him.

"...Yeah." He faced the shorter of the two children. "Yukio, can you and Rin take the cookies inside?"

The child hesitated, sensing the unease behind his words. Luthian would have been surprised that such a young child could have such sense, but, well, he was half demon, after all.

"Come on, Rin." Looking away from Luthian, he reached in front of Fujimoto to take his brother's hand. Rin didn't respond to the touch even when it lightly pulled at him, busy staring at Luthian.

Not to be crass, but Luthian would be staring too. Unfortunately, a mirror wasn't available to him at that moment.

"M'kay." Rin allowed himself to be pulled away by Yukio. He twisted around to take a last glance at Luthian, eyes flashing the deepest blue in the white winter air.

_That one. _Luthian's eyes widened in rapt attention as the child turned away. _That one_ was the Son of Satan.

"You here for the Vatican?" The man's voice distracted him with its rudeness. Luthian faced him begrudgingly, giving his best fake smile, the kind that was so sunny, he could tell it was fake. That was part of the _charm_.

"No, I'm sure they would send someone a lot less influential to speak with you, Father Fujimoto." Luthian didn't mean it as an insult, but it seemed the man took it as such.

"You think so?" he huffed. "So what can I do for you?"

"Nothing much. I came to welcome Rin and Yukio Okumura to the world, but apologies; it seems I'm a few years late. I got caught up in work, and I do lose track of time so easily."

"I see." It must hurt his muscles to be so tense, so on guard. Was Luthian really so unsettling?

The angel gave a mannerable laugh. "I'm glad you do. So, may I?"

"No."

His head tilted. "Really?"

"Really. They just went to the park and they're tired. Come another day." A challenge was reflected in his eyes, just _daring_ Luthian to come ever again.

He chuckled with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Alright. I think I will. Have a nice day, Father Fujimoto."

"Yeah, you too."

_Hmph._ Luthian upturned his nose and spun around on one heel, heading back the way he came. He would come back whether Fujimoto liked it or not; the man had to know that. Luthian was so far above him, he couldn't _comprehend_ the difference. He would squash him the way one squashes a pesky insect.

Although, Mikey had told him not to harm the priest or the children. And that was _such _a bore.

* * *

Mephisto turned in his chair to look out the window behind him, crossing one leg over the other. Snow fell gently there, from dark clouds that had been much lighter when he'd last looked.

He didn't like it when it snowed like this.

This terrible in-between of heavy clouds and light snowfall, it was appalling. He wished it would storm, he wished the wind would blow harder and stir up the snow and cover his window so he couldn't see.

_Chaos_ was the word he was looking for. It was too _calm_, and he was _bored_.

How long had it been since those twins were born? It would be three years, he thought. Or maybe four. Maybe he should go see them, or at least he should go see Shiro. It would be a lot more interesting than whatever the hell he was doing now, for sure.

"Nii-san." She finally spoke up. She'd been standing there for quite a while behind him, just staring.

"Yes?" Although he answered her, it was obvious he wasn't giving Egyn his full attention. Still leaning on his chair, gaze still out the window, lips barely moving when he spoke, he was ignoring her.

She stood rigid and tense, snow melting in her hair and her dress and dripping onto the floor. Mephisto heard it falling _drip drip drip_ like rain. Her bangs fell into her face, blue hair framing blue eyes, pale clothes clinging to pale skin.

"Nii-san, _look at me_!" she suddenly screamed.

_Look at you?_ He exhaled quietly, lowering his hand as he slowly turned. _And what do you want me to see?_

She stood in silence, hands fists at her sides, lip curled back on one side, a black-furred tail twitching at her feet. Mephisto met her eyes calmly, apathetically. Wind howled behind him, louder in the tense silence than it had been a moment ago, louder, it seemed, than the _drip drip drip_ of the snow in her clothes.

"What do you need, Egyn?" he asked, voice filled with venom. Egyn knew a voice sweetened with so much honey was a trap. She knew it from experience with him, know it from experience with herself. But she didn't care.

"You didn't tell me that Yuri is dead," she accused, voice on the edge of breaking. Mephisto knew that a voice like that was as fake as it was genuine, he knew it from experience. He wondered when Egyn would stop deluding herself.

"I thought you would have figured it out." He spoke matter-of-factly and patronizingly. It annoyed her, even though she knew she had no right to be annoyed, and he had every right to be patronizing. She should have figured this out the moment she found out Yuri had birthed Satan's children. Why hadn't she?

"Why didn't you tell me? You were there when she died! What were her last words? Was she happy to die?" _Was she happy?_ What kind of a question was that? She obviously wasn't happy. She had died in pain, fighting to hang onto the breath to speak to her children. No, she wasn't _happy_. And what did it matter, anyway?

"Why do you care so much?" he asked. Those words hit Egyn by surprise, and her anger faltered. Why _did_ she care so much? What did Yuri Egin's death three years ago have to do with Egyn now? They had only met once, after all.

Her hands loosened from their tight fists, and she looked away from him. "She was nice to me when I was injured." He supposed he should pity her, with her broken eyes, with her fallen gaze. Hiding tears? She couldn't hide it from him.

Yes, he supposed he should pity the poor girl. But the only thing he could muster was contempt.

"She didn't help you because she was a nice person, Egyn." He leaned an arm his desk and rested his cheek in his hand. "She helped you because you're a demon."

"Does that really matter?" In frustration, she forgot herself, facing Mephisto again with annoyance clear in her expression. "What other human do you know that is as nice to demons as she is?"

"_Was_, Egyn."

_Oh, right._

She hesitated before speaking her next words, and he took advantage of her hesitation.

"Humans die, Egyn." He was aware that his words were harsh, but never reconsidered them. Why would he? "It's your fault you always get so attached to them."

"I can't help it!" she shouted.

"Can't you?" He sighed, and stood. The movement quieted any other arguments she might have made. "I have to go now."

"Where are you going?" She suddenly lost her accusatory tone and became curious, making as if to follow him as he made his way to the door.

"I have to go see someone. Alone, Egyn."

"Oh." She stopped.

"Stay here if you want, but get out of those clothes, if you are. You're dripping on my carpet."

_I am?_ She looked down at herself to find that she was indeed soaking wet. She tugged lightly at the edges of gloves on her forearm. "Sorry."

Her apology went unheard. Or, at least, unacknowledged. The only answer was "I'll be back soon enough." and the sound of the door closing.

Rather than pulling off the glove as her brother had suggested, she pulled it further up. These were hers for a reason, and she wouldn't ever take them off.

* * *

"Rin!" Shiro lightly smacked the child's hand away from one of the plates on the table. "Those are for _after_ dinner."

"Then why'd you put them on the table like that?" Rin whined. Yukio silently agreed from behind him.

"_Convenience_," Shiro stated firmly, crossing his arms.

"Dad, can we just have one before dinner?" Yukio came beside Rin with a pleading look in his eyes.

Shiro tried to remain stoic, but in the face of both of their pleading, he sighed and relaxed.

"Alright, but just one." He wasn't very good at this, was he?

"_Yes_!" Rin immediately jolted forward to grab the largest one off the plate. Yukio was less spastic but no less enthusiastic, taking whichever one his hand reached first.

The chocolate chunks immediately melted from the warmth of their hands, and when Rin wiped his face with his chocolate-stained fingers, Shiro grimaced.

_Napkin._ Shiro dodged the hand that was coming to grasp his clothes for whatever ungodly reason and quickly made his way into the kitchen.

"Why didn't I bring them out before?" he cursed himself in a whisper, searching the counter for them fruitlessly.

"I think they're over here," purred a singularly unhelpful voice. Shiro spun around, startled, even though he knew who it was before he was facing them. "Nope," Mephisto corrected, looking around himself. "Not over here. Are you sure you really looked over there?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" Shiro ignored his superficial questioning.

"Hm?" He looked up, feigning confusion. "Well, I was helping you find the napkins, lest little Rin wipe his dirty hands on everything he sees. We should hurry, before they steal more cookies than they were allowed." He turned to the counter he leaned on, brow furrowed in mock seriousness.

Shiro was never in the mood to indulge the demon's strange behavior, but at that moment, he was less tolerant than he had ever been. None too gently, he grabbed Mephisto and removed his left hand from the small pile of napkins.

"Oh, it seems they were here the whole time~!" he gleefully exclaimed. Shiro exhaled slowly, doing little to hide his annoyance.

"I have to go, Mephisto. Come back later." He released Mephisto's wrist, moving away, but then Mephisto grabbed his wrist in return, preventing his leave.

"Introduce me to them, Shiro," he implored, his face obscenely close to Shiro's.

"No." He accentuated his refusal by pulling his hand away from him, which Mephisto allowed surprisingly easily.

"Why not?" he pouted, crossing his arms.

"Because if you did, that'd be cheating." Shiro smirked, leaning back into the wall. When Mephisto only tilted his head, he elaborated. "You're a demon. Who's to say that your appearance won't hasten their awakening as demons? I won't allow it."

"Hmph." He leaned in again, too close. "I see your point. Well, then, I suppose I must leave." He straightened. "I have somewhere else to be."

"Then why'd you come here?"

He shrugged, lifting his arm as well as his shoulder in his usual animated way. "I had to leave before schedule, and didn't want to be rude by showing up early."

"Yes, and showing up here was obviously your best choice."

A malicious grin pulled his lips back. "_Obviously_."

"_Dad_!"

Shiro looked to the doorway at the call, and then back at Mephisto, who brought his hands up defensively.

"Ah, no, go ahead. Don't let me keep you from your family."

_Family?_ Shiro forgot himself a second, suspicion narrowing his eyes to mask confusion. But at another call from Rin, he quickly turned away.

_Yeah, family._

* * *

It smelled like iron and mold. Which was nothing new of course, but it seemed to get stronger every time Mephisto came here.

"Welcome back, Sir Pheles." One of the soldiers, nameless to his eyes, guarding the prison bowed. "He's waiting for you."

"Of course he is," Mephisto stated patronizingly. The two guards opened the doors for him. "Go ahead and give the warden my regards; I was late and couldn't find the time to speak to him before coming here."

"I'll let him know, Sir Pheles." The soldier gave a curt, serious nod, and closed the door.

The noise of it boomed throughout the cell, momentarily overtaking the sound of strumming. The person playing was unaffected by the noise. He was used to it, after all.

He lounged on a cushioned mattress he'd pulled against the wall. Although his back was to the wall and his face towards Mephisto, he failed to notice him. His eyes were focused on the instrument in his hands, lips pursed in concentration, brow knitted intently as his fingers deftly plucked the strings. It wasn't a tune that Mephisto recognized; he supposed it was new. A new song for a new instrument; he shouldn't be surprised. His brother was never one to lie idle. This prison didn't suit him at all. Mephisto had seen the shaking of his hands every time they were away from his instruments, the metaphorical gears working his mind not rusting so much as spinning faster and more erratically until they all became unhinged.

"Azazael." Mephisto's voice resonated cleanly against the metal walls, and the strumming of the small instrument immediately ceased. Azazael looked up at him, the brown hair that had beforehand concealed his features unmasking him with the movement of his head. He had taken the body of a Hispanic man that looked a lot younger than he was, who had always managed his hair to be long, but not scraggly, and his skin to be imperfect but not ugly. His features were delicate like porcelain, features that shifted expressions with all the sincerity of a automaton wired to raise their eyebrows or frown their lips when confronted with a command. However, in life, Mephisto had known that man to be quite rambunctious and uncontrolled.

"Aniue?" Azazael held the small instrument close to his body, giving Mephisto his full attention although his left hand still vibrated on the strings. "You're here." His lips twitched slightly, pulling into a tentative, pleased smile. "Finally."

"You've downgraded," Mephisto noted with a glance at the small guitar in his arms.

Azazael gasped in a way that wasn't supposed to be comical, but managed it anyway. "There is nothing wrong with the ukulele! It's a beautiful instrument." Despite his words, he didn't treat the instrument with much grace, throwing it back onto the mattress when he stood.

"I prefer your violin." Mephisto moved closer to the iron bars when Azazael did, but was careful not to get too close. He'd had those seals carved into the iron himself; demons could not touch them. Azazael was not so cautious, leaning in so close that the ends of his hair brushed the iron. It singed where it touched.

"Many things can be played on the violin, yes, but the guitar, Aniue?" He closed his eyes and leaned back into himself, fingers tapping a silent melody against his thigh. "The ultimate transcendence of music comes from the many octaves and styles of the guitar."

"Does it really?" Mephisto prodded indulgently.

Azazael's eyes snapped open, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, it does. Watch-" He ran over to the wall where a full-sized guitar was propped against the wall. With methodical fluidity, he swung it under his arm. "You can do so much with a guitar. I've transposed orchestral pieces, piano pieces..." He trailed off, expression suddenly becoming distant. "They won't give me a piano."

His finger plucked a string lightly, then came up to adjust the pegs at the top of the guitar. The strings made a thin _twang_ at every touch, a metallic sound that clanged against the walls and back to him in seconds. That concentrated look took over his expression again; lips tightening, eyes focusing. The skin around his eyes crinkled ever so smoothly: focused, but never tense.

"Watch this; there's no way I can play this on a violin," he said, standing in front of Mephisto now. His left hand waited in position, right hand holding over the strings. He breathed in deeply, and then started slowly strumming the strings.

Mephisto immediately recognized the tune as the first movement Beethoven's Sonata No. 14 in C# minor. _The Moonlight Sonata_. A piece that revolved around the minor third, that revolved around dissonance, assonance, and dynamic so delicately. The soft triplets resonated perfectly, fingertips plucking with the mechanical precision of only someone who'd practised music long enough that he'd become a slave to music could have. And the crack of the master's whip was every note of the melody that shone above the triplets, or rather it was the prospect of _silence_ that was the punishment. To know that any mistake would throw the soft ripples in the water into disarray.

Was that the mentality of a musician? To know that every time you took your instrument in your hand, you were, in turn, handing yourself over to the music? To give up your free will every time you played, all for the ecstasy of the _raw emotion_ of music?

Well, it had always seemed that Azazael knew this well, had borne it well. He swayed as he leaned into the music, a puppet surrendering to six metallic strings.

"See?" So suddenly, the trance was broken. The silence of it was enough to be jarring on its own, but the sound of his voice twisting against the silence like two incompatible gears, screeching and scraping, was enough to make Mephisto cringe. "I can't do that on a violin."

"No, I'm sure you couldn't..." Mephisto looked Azazael up and down, scrutinizing that skinny form with twitching fingers and a gaze hopeful for something neither of them were sure of. He was always like this: so hopeful, so expectant. Every time Mephisto came to see him, he paced around his prison, invisible chains clanking as he searched for something new to show and tell.

"How are you feeling, Azazael?" he asked, as he always did.

Azazael's face lost its artificial spark at the question, lips slowly downturning and eyes relaxing from their optimistic tension. His voice was deeper and hoarse when he spoke, the pretense of good mood dropped. "I'm tired, Aniue," he spoke, and those words broke the beautiful facade around him.

"All of us are," answered Mephisto in a soft voice. Soft, but its presence wasn't diminished by its volume.

"When can I leave?" Azazael's voice didn't carry the same way Mephisto's did. A broken whisper, hardly audible, left split, swollen lips. He should really get rid of that habit of biting his lips; even now, as his teeth grazed the skin, blood welled from the wounds.

Mephisto let his smile of soft reassurance stretch, to betray the subtle ingenuinity in his words that a facetious wink would have done more crudely. "You have been assigned this cell indefinitely, Azazael. We both know that." They both knew that this physical imprisonment of body was not what Azazael had spoken of. But the stretch of that smile, the tilt of that chin, the lifting of one shoulder; Azazael knew the message there.

_"Soon_,_"_ the undertones of that voice whispered.

Conversation ended, purpose fulfilled, Azazael stepped away from Mephisto. It was a few backwards steps before he turned around to the wall he'd been laying against before Mephisto's arrival. He methodically laid the guitar against the wall, took the ukulele in hand, and resumed playing in the same position he had been.

The notes were soft and lilting; of course they were. Angry music didn't suit Azazael. Blood dripped from his lip, snaking down his skin and dripping onto the stains on his clothes, but it was the kind of blood that dripped from an old wound, one that spoke of the beautiful and abhorrent feelings that grow from bittersweet memories of a life before tragedy. If rage was an emotion that Azazael felt, it was the kind of rage that was scornful and sentimental in its apathetic detachment.

Mephisto admired his facade. Because a facade it might have been, but so _honest_ it was, all the same.

His footsteps accompanied the shrill notes, as he left the strings to do as they wished.


	4. Chapter 4:: Of France

**5/30/20 - Updated to sound less pretentious and actually read well**

* * *

Chapter 4:: Of France

It was a rather nice apartment that they lived in. Though, it wasn't an apartment so much as a suite, and not so much a suite as a three-story with more parlour rooms than anything else. The floor was carpeted, the candles were lit, and the banister was polished perfectly: the apartment of rich people.

The front door opened, seemingly not interesting enough of an event for the man reading a textbook to notice. Snow spiraled in with the wind, but in the warmth of the house, it was gone before it could touch the carpet.

His ears perked at the sound of the closet door opening as she put away her coat and her boots. She yawned loudly and shut the door loudly enough to startle him. But he recovered before she came into the room.

"Chocolate?" Béatrice tossed a golden wrapper onto the coffee table. It was already messy from the papers he'd spent all night grading, struggling to get it done by the set date. He was such a procrastinator, which she found funny considering his obsession with having those set dates.

"No, no thanks." Rèmi refused her without looking up from his book. "I'm trying something new."

"Something new?" She threw herself into the seat beside his. The old wood creaked under her impact, dust clouding the air and onto her clothes. Rèmi absently brushed off his own clothes at the sight. She did not take the hint.

"I'm not eating chocolate or any other sweets anymore, only cheese and vegetables," Rèmi proudly declared, pushing his glasses further onto his nose as he looked up at her.

"Oh." She leaned forward and took the chocolate she'd offered him. "Sounds interesting."

"It is quite interesting, I think." Rèmi turned to his book again. "I wonder how long it'll last."

"_Ouais_, I don't think the human body was meant to be sustained on only cheese and vegetables," Béatrice said, chewing loudly.

Rèmi cringed at the sound, but said nothing about it. "Well, the French seem to have the cheese part down already."

A small snicker came from his sister. "Indeed." She stood, and the dust rose again. Rèmi casually leaned to the opposite side of his seat. "Well, I have to go."

"So soon?" He flipped a page even though he hadn't finished reading it.

"Afraid so. Our _Petit Ange_ is waiting."

"_Ever_ so patiently, I assume." The disapproval was clear in Rèmi's prude voice, and Béatrice laughed.

"_Ouais_,_ ouais_, he is so!" Rèmi's lips curved into a pleasant smile, but he neglected to join in with her rambunctious laughter. Somehow she managed not to resemble a shark when she laughed; Rèmi was not so lucky.

She swept a hand through her hair. It twisted compliantly into a braid at her touch, complete with a prim ribbon tied to the end.

Another thing Rèmi didn't understand about his sister: her hair. It changed with her mood; short one day, long the next; blonde one week, brunette the week after. It happened to be a nice pale golden that day, which was Rèmi's favorite because it matched his own. Colour was the only way their hair would match. Rèmi would never be able to nor ever _care_ _to_ be able to keep it so neat. He kept it how it looked from the moment he woke, unless Béatrice pinned him to the floor with a hairbrush. In those cases, the brush would inevitably be damp from her own hair, and he would smell annoyingly like her hair products for the rest of the day.

His eyes on his book, he heard her footsteps retreat back into the foyer. He heard the sound when she opened the closet where her countless coats and shoes were thrown messily onto hangers and shelves. She shuffled around in it far too slowly for a person already late to an appointment, searching for whichever one she felt like putting on and immediately taking off as soon as she arrived.

"Hey, how's this one?" She leaned back into Rèmi's view. She had on that outrageously furry coat that hung as low as a ballroom dress, and never failed to make Rèmi envision Creulla de Vil in her place.

"_Ça va_." He turned another page he hadn't read. She sniffed at his apathy, but wasn't so affected that she'd reconsider her choice. There was the sound of a zipper, probably from the high-heeled boots she normally wore with that coat. Rèmi wondered idly how she was going to fence with high heels.

"I'll be back after," she informed him, flitting through her keys. "Will you?"

"I have a class to teach."

"Oh, I forgot. I'll meet you there, then, and we can go out?" She found the correct key and idly placed the hand on her hip.

Rèmi shrugged disaffectedly. "_Ça va_."

Another indignant sniff. "_Ça va_," she mimicked, and then turned to leave.

When the door had shut behind her, Rèmi flipped back to the page he'd been on before her arrival, and placed a plain, black bookmark between the pages. He did have a class to teach in an hour, and, unlike Béatrice, preferred to be punctual. And since he had to attend to an important appointment before that class, he would have to leave earlier than he'd normally.

Sighing softly, he gathered the scattered papers on the table, and placed them in his briefcase in some semblance of order. He did like to be neat, because life was much easier when one could actually find their goddamn belongings, but fact was, he was related to Béatrice, and their habits were more or less inherited nature. As such, he was certain that as soon as he arrived in his office, he would find many of his important belongings had been forgotten.

His own closet in the foyer was much neater than his sister's. Although he couldn't claim that he owned less things than her, the things she owned were much more diverse than his. Most of what he owned were just the same coats and jackets in different variations of colour. She, however, seemed to own at least one thing from every corner of the world. Most of those things tended to be extravagant and downright unnecessary, which Rèmi blamed both their older brother's influence and infinite wealth for.

Barely hesitating, he chose the coat with the standing collar and the buttons that fastened left of the centre. Béatrice had bought it for him on one of her shopping crusades when Winter had started to pick up, and he considered himself too polite to not wear it.

Unfortunately, there wasn't a key that would take him to his appointment as easily as Béatrice had for hers. He sighed in front of the door, preparing to walk in the snow. He reached for the doorknob, and with a start, realised two things- he had forgotten his gloves, and he had forgotten to turn off the house lights. A small click of his tongue showed his annoyance for no one to see. A few steps backwards, and he had retrieved his gloves from his closet. A snap of his fingers, and the candles were put out.

* * *

It was Mikey's personal belief that the French were the fathers of aristocracy. Standing in snow that was impure with mud and likely other, far less pleasant things, as well, in front of an equally impure building whose sign read "_La Maison de Petites Anges_," he could clearly see why.

Ah, well, France had always had a terrible imbalance of pretty things and awful things. Aristocrats could build their palaces and fill ballrooms with their complexity of societal niceties, but it would never truly mask the stench of depravity in the streets.

Not to say that Mikey minded the smell. He had a certain intrigue with paradoxes.

Inside the building itself, the scent became much stronger, along with the acute awareness that he _did not belong_. That rare stroke of consciousness didn't bring with it any sense of alarm or shyness- rather, he reveled in the sidelong glares and raised eyebrows.

He found their judgement so petty. They wore their calloused skin and jagged fingernails like some kind of badge of masculinity. Mikey suspected they compared his fair skin to that of the women on the stage, the delicate hands that ghosted what they touched so teasingly.

Well, now that he thought about it, perhaps he could use a scar, just for some individuality. Or a tattoo. Or a tattoo of a scar, since he was actually unsure of his ability to retain any scars. But isn't a scar essentially what a tattoo is?

He decided to ponder it over a drink, sitting at the bar as he waited for the person next to him to stop ignoring him.

It took a few minutes, during which Mikey had finished three drinks and was working on a fourth, for her to say something. "What the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

He grinned, lips pressed lightly against his glass. "Looking for a better greeting than that, for one."

Dealings with demons hadn't done her any good. Her face twisted into a snarl, a growl rose from her throat. "When an asshole walks into _my_ house and drinks _my_ wine uninvited, I don't regard him as a _Prince_."

"Ah, of course, _ma sœur_." He tipped his glass imperiously, tongue burning from the drink. If this was _wine_, then it was a strange brew indeed. Oh, right. Symbolism. "But when the King visits the house of a peasant, does the peasant not give him her best wine and hospitality?"

She snickered at him and downed her own drink. "You're in France, Asshole. Dare you compare yourself to a King?"

He accepted her challenge, tipping the drink the rest of the way back until it was empty. She smirked approvingly from beneath the curtain of hair she hid behind.

The man behind the bar who had served Mikey's drink was currently in conversation with a demon whose tail curled around his seat. He glanced at the woman beside Mikey and shooed a Faerie familiar towards them. To Mikey's delight, it was the small, pixie kind of Faerie that he always found adorable. With his cheek cupped in his hand, he watched the tiny thing, no taller than his forearm, jump behind the bar and reappear in front of them struggling to lift the bottle. Its wings fluttered frantically to get to the table's height until it finally dropped it heavily on the table. Mikey was surprised it didn't break. She broke the seal with her teeth, and seemed to debate pouring their glasses before bowing hastily and running back towards the bartender.

Mikey allowed his sister the liberty of pouring the drinks. Master (Mistress) of the house, and so on.

"So, why the hell are you here?" she repeated her earlier question with the same amount of audacity, but muted hostility.

"Eh, I don't know." He drank, and so did she. "Sex and drinks. Isn't that what people come to you for?"

The only thing that stopped him from classifying her laugh as a giggle then was his mind's insistence that Raphael _does not giggle_.

"_Ouais_, that's me!" she _snickered_ into the wrist of the hand holding her glass. "Raphael, Angel of Sex and Drinks!"

Mikey laughed with her. "_Bon_, but what does that make me?"

Without hesitation, she grinned her predatorial grin. "Angel of Assholes."

She seemed to be very proud of her double entendre as they raised their glasses, drinking to the Angels of Sin.

"You've been staying in Japan until now, right?" Yeah, those demons take their toll. Although, Mikey supposed she'd always had shifty eyes. She was just better with them now.

"Yeah, Val keeps me there. He likes the trees or something; I don't know." Well, he'd known that her challenge wasn't just a challenge of drinks when he'd accepted it.

"And Azarath, she's the _Directeur de l'Italie_ now." She was the perfect picture of disaffection. Leaned back in her chair, one foot against the wall of the bar as she slowly swirled the liqueur in her glass. Another _snicker_ into her hand. "Arguably the most powerful position in the Vatican, wouldn't you say?" She finally drank it.

"Well, they can hardly say no to her." Mikey did not drink; he hadn't yet taken his shot. "They should at least pretend to practise what they preach."

"You doubt the authenticity of the Vatican's faith?" She tapped her lip with the glass.

"I doubt the authenticity of all men. See, I'm a believer of eternal man versus man conflict, and that includes man versus himself." He spread is arms in a constrained shrug. "Rarely a man's motivations are completely virtuous, _alors_ he is rarely authentic." And he sipped.

"Ah, I see. You know, I almost would've have taken you for an altruist." She sipped.

Mikey sipped.

"A cynic is just as well, though," she continued. "But, you keep yourself veiled with such effort that I have to wonder, _mon frère_, if a cynic is all that you are."

Mikey lifted his chin and closed his eyes to better smell the air. "As I'm sure you can agree, my cynicism is well-justified, even if it is a bit dramatic." He sniffed in dry humour. "In fact, it borders on fatalism. And sometimes I wonder- which is worse; a demon or a man?"

She sipped.

"It is true that man is not inherently evil," he continued. "But it is true that they have an inherent choice to be evil. And often, that choice is influenced by demons. That is all demons are: influencers that desire destruction above all things."

"You're overgeneralizing."

"I'm telling it how it is." He huffed indignantly and somewhat childishly.

There was a pause, in which the lilting song of the woman onstage and the clink of glasses and voices were the only sounds. Quickly it became white nose again as Mikey continued.

"Men are capable of atrocities even without the help of demons. Mary I of England; I remember her well. Demons surrounding her, and she slaughtered them all. And it wasn't enough for her. Killing people made her feel powerful, I assume. Like a soldier of God. It wasn't a demon's work that burned thousands on the stake then, it was the work of misled ideals based on Sainthood and religious purity."

"Did it bother you to watch them burn?"

"Of course it didn't bother me. Fire is the purest of all executions, after all."

A raised eyebrow. Yes, that defence was dubious at best. A slanted smirk, ironic tone. "_Stipendium peccati mors est_." She tipped back the glass until it was empty.

"_Oui_," Mikey agreed. "If only they would practise what they preach."

He set his drink on the counter, still half full. A dealer with demons, after all. A wide, sharp-toothed grin split her face, eyes still hidden by that unnecessarily heavy hair.

She _snickered_. "_D'accord_, if only."

He didn't realise how faint he was feeling until he stood. Damn, what had that been- Seven drinks? It seemed to be an inherent quality in angels to not be able to hold their liqueur. A small laugh passed him deliriously as he remembered the last time he and Val had gone drinking. He was such a lightweight, and he said the oddest things when he was drunk. And of course Rath, despite her classy dress and refined speech, would always let loose of that stick up her ass when she was drunk.

_Drunk._ Mikey supposed he was rather drunk, now. He couldn't really say what kind of person he was when drunk. Probably very fun, though.

"This place is nice," he said, ironic poison dripping from his teeth. "I think I shall visit again soon."

"I think I shall look forward to it," Raphael said back, the tone of her voice implying the opposite.

These little games of theirs; it wouldn't do to make a habit of them. And yet, all the same...

"_Á bientôt_, Raphael." He had to use the bar counter as an anchor as he turned around.

"_Bonsoir~!_" she sang after him.

He quickly disappeared into the dusty fog of the room. Watching him go, Raphael smiled to herself.

He was so naïve, for someone claiming to be a cynic. And his naïveté was unique to her; it bordered on blasphemy. She poured the liquor into both her glass and Mikey's abandoned one.

Such a sweet little angel, so full of ideals.

* * *

**Ha so Raphael's pretty shady, isn't she? And Mikey seems to be fighting his own internal battle I love them both~**

**Also, I'm aware not everyone speaks French, in fact I pretty much don't, so I used words that are either common enough that it's mostly common knowledge, or cognates so-**

Ouais - Yeah  
Petit/e/s Ange/s - Little angel/s  
Ça va - Can mean a lot of slightly different things in different contexts, and is used here just as "Okay"  
La Maison de Peties Anges - House of Little Angels, go figure  
Ma soeur - My sister  
Mon frère - My brother  
Bon - Good  
Directeur de l'Italie - Director of Italy (Italy Branch of the Vatican)  
D'accord - Okay/I agree  
Á bientôt - "See you soon"  
Bonsoir - Good evening (greeting or goodbye)

If I messed up somewhere, please feel free to point it out because I'm not a native speaker or lived in a French-speaking country so online blogs and high school french classes are really all I have to rely on oof

**Also some history allusions, cuz those are always fun~!**

"You're in France. Dare you compare yourself to a king?" - See: every event in French history

Mary I - Mary I of England, who was the daughter of Henry VIII (see: man who killed five of his wives), was just an absolute Catholic maniac. To reverse the English Reformation and the Anglican Church that Henry VIII had created, she literally just burned non-Catholics at the stake. Of course, when Elizabeth I became queen after Mary I died of a tumor, she immediately changed back to being (implicitly) Protestant lmao

_Stipendium peccati mors est_ is Latin, and I think it comes from Marlowe's version of Doctor Faustus. It means, "The wages of sin is death." i dig it

**Also, as I'm sure you're aware of my now, I'm total shit at updating. So, uh yeah. Next chapter will be sometime after demon's cry updates so cyaa whenever the hell that winds up happening  
**

**FuturisticVamp is peacin out-**


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